Once Upon a Past
by Melody Harper
Summary: The team find themselves at loose ends during a rainy layover in Seattle. What starts out as an entertaining, Garcia-driven diversion, becomes…something more. Occult, AU-ish.
1. Stranded in Seattle

"Oh…C'mon!…It'll be fun!" Garcia wobbled about on her sequined platforms in the shadowed alcove set between windows flanked by heavy, velvet panels. A lurid, neon sign shaped like a vaguely Egyptian eye flashed acid green through the murky evening light.

"Seriously, Pen? A fortune teller?"

"No! Not a fortune teller…" The tech analyst's eyes glittered with an enthusiasm that almost outshone her abundant accessories. "A _past life detector_! And! And! Sometimes she can tell _future_ lives, too! Ohhhh…C'mon! Puhleeeeeze?"

The cyber-crime, human trafficking case they'd been working had ended early. It had been one of the rare times they'd needed their trusty tech analyst onsite.

In addition, the pilot of the BAU jet had heard some noises during the flight out to Seattle that had him worried. He'd decided to take advantage of what he'd thought would be a layover of several days to submit the G200 Gulfstream to a complete overhaul and inspection.

So when the case was solved in a matter of hours…the unsub and her subordinates cuffed and booked, the agents of the BAU were at loose ends. Ordinarily they would have treated themselves to a nice dinner and then retired to their respective hotel rooms. The dismal Northwest rain rendered sightseeing an uninviting option.

Ordinarily.

But ordinarily they didn't have Penelope Garcia along for the ride.

"Oh…C'mon, guys! When ever again are we gonna be all together with free time and…and…_this_!" She swept one arm in an extravagantly theatrical gesture that included the atmospheric weather as well as the shop façade fairly dripping with occult promise.

Glances were exchanged.

"You guys go ahead. I'm going back to my room." Hotch started to turn away when Rossi's hand took a firm grip on his upper arm, not only arresting forward motion, but pulling their boss back a few steps.

The older man spoke with a professorial air. "Aaaaaaron…now wasn't it you who brought up the importance of doing things together every once in a while?" He rested his index finger against his lips, looking skyward with a frown of faux concentration. "What was the terminology you used? Oh! That's right! I remember..." He fixed the Unit Chief with a beetling look that had everything to do with payback. "When you made me have everyone over for a cooking lesson…? 'Like a family.' That was it."

"Dave…"

"Nothing doin', Hotch. We don't get Garcia with us that often. So we're going to take advantage and do this…" Rossi motioned for everyone to accompany him…and they did… "LIKE A FAMILY!"

Dropping his head in mock defeat, their leader acquiesced. "Alright. But I'd really rather order room service and get a leg up on the paperwork."

"Tough."

Penelope led the way, the rest of the team following in single file, Rossi bringing up the rear just to be sure Hotch didn't bolt for a less paranormal pastime.

The BAU profilers entered Madame Sobrani's Parlor of Past Possibilities.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Garcia entered and couldn't help closing her eyes for a moment. For the duration of a breath, really. She inhaled the fragrance of the shop. Cinnamon. Sugar heated to 350 degrees. Heaven.

As Morgan crossed the threshold, he coughed and rubbed what felt like grit from his eyes. The sensations of heat and arid dust wafted over him. He hunched his shoulders, wondering why they ached.

Prentiss's reaction was almost the opposite of Derek's. She breathed in the sharp, alpine scent of evergreens. Her shoulder blades pressed together in an involuntary spasm. But they didn't ache. They itched. As though something were missing…had been torn away, leaving the irritation of a healing scab. Inexpressible yearning touched her soul…but only for a heartbeat.

J.J. stepped into the shop. A small, secret smile blossomed on her lips. She smelled herbs and spicy flowers, powders and a warm, milky scent. A longing crested in her. She stopped herself from reaching out with fingers expecting to encounter…something.

Reid entered with a cynical smile. But three steps deep, he stopped, lifting his nose to the bracing smell of salt and sea. _Well, this __**is**__ Seattle, an ocean port._ Inhaling deeply, his eyes drifted shut. He gave his brow an absent-minded swipe…and was surprised the skin wasn't damp with spray.

Hotch faltered as his foot passed the dividing line between street and store. His heart raced. The small hairs on the back of his neck lifted. He knew this scent… It was primal and hot and at once drew him in and repelled him. Confused, pulse pounding, he tried to back away, but a hand in the small of his back stopped him.

Rossi pushed the reluctant Unit Chief ahead of him, wondering why he was being so uncooperative. And then Dave stopped, too. A broad smile settled on his features as a familiar aroma summoned feelings of family. He shook his head to clear it. _That's what I get for throwing that 'family' thing in Aaron's face!_ Tomatoes and basil, warming in the sun. He wanted to go deeper, but something was in the way…reluctant Hotch.

Frowning, Rossi gave the younger man another push, propelling him forward.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The team milled about the foyer, unsure what to do next.

"Hello? Hel-looooo!? Anyone here? Madame Sobrani?" Garcia took the lead.

"Here…. I…am…here." The laconic voice sounded as though its owner had been imbibing quantities of whiskey and tobacco for years on end. Rough and throaty and of questionable gender.

Eyes shining with excitement, Penelope followed the sound through the cliché of a beaded curtain that sparkled and rattled under her touch. It led to another cliché. A darkened room draped and swathed in heavy, jewel-toned velvets. A round table at the center had two chairs facing each other from opposite sides. In one was the undoubted owner of the voice.

Haggard. Hooded eyes. Hawkish nose. A perpetual sneer lifting one side of her lips. But she sported the requisite paisley headscarf and an overabundance of costume jewelry. The clatter of bangles as the woman waved her visitors closer went a long way to make Garcia consider her a soul mate.

"Uh…Hi!" The tech analyst edged her way in, fairly bubbling with anticipation. She loved things magical, touched with occult possibilities. And to be able to bring her teammates with her was almost too exhilarating to bear.

The Sobrani's chin lifted, seeing people lingering in the shadows behind this bright beacon of a woman in a rain-slicked, purple, vinyl coat. She raised her arms in an imperious gesture. "Come! All of you! Come in."

As each passed through the beaded curtain, Madame's narrowed eyes scanned the visitor from head to toe. She remained expressionless throughout…except for two.

She blinked as Prentiss entered.

Held her breath when Hotch did.


	2. Garcia

Only Rossi noticed the old woman's lingering focus on Hotch.

Her eyes were unreadable, but in the shadowed room their glint tracked the Unit Chief. Dave couldn't be sure, but she might have shuddered.

Shrugging, he dismissed the observation. A man in a suit, dress shirt and tie _did_ look out of place in this space that reeked of incense and looked as though it could be home to a certain fringe element that might not welcome someone who appeared as law abiding as Hotch. Rossi wondered where the brief whiff of sun-ripened tomatoes and herbs that had reminded him so much of his mother had come from, though. _Probably a restaurant nearby, or Madame What's-Her-Name had Italian for dinner._

He pushed Hotch deeper into the room and turned his attention to Garcia. She seemed to be the one most at home in this type of establishment. Plus, her enthusiasm for this adventure was visibly increasing. Arms gesturing and jewelry flashing, the tech analyst made an amusing counterpart to the slightly more subdued, but still flamboyant presence of the fortune teller. _No. Not fortune teller_, Rossi reminded himself. _Not sure what the lady does, but I bet it's just as, uh…__**reputable**__ as fortune telling._

"So, can we listen in or do you have to have just the person you're reading in the room, so, you know, you can _focus_ and _feel_ and _channel_ them? 'Cause I'd _really_ like to hear about everyone's past life, but, you know, I don't wanna…"

"_Enough_!" The Sobrani raised an arm, palm toward Garcia, arresting her tirade midstream. Quivering with the effort of holding in the words that were piling up behind her hot pink lips, Penelope held very still, hoping she hadn't offended the delicate sensibilities of this occult artiste.

Without deigning to address any of the techie's concerns, Madame lowered her arm, converting the gesture into one that invited this jittery, glittery woman before her to take a seat. Once Garcia had, the Sobrani leaned toward her client. "In here, it is wiser to remain silent. Wiser to listen." Penelope gave a vigorous nod, keeping her lips pressed together to show she could embody the wisdom of silence.

"Now." The woman studied Garcia. "Your friends may remain, if you wish…But once we begin, no one may leave. They stay together…" One side of her mouth quirked upward. "…like a _family_…"

They wouldn't admit it, but a collective shiver traversed the spines of the BAU team.

No one mentioned the phrase they'd used out on the street before they'd entered the shop. It was as though by ignoring it, they could deny the sensation that this woman already possessed some sort of eerie inside knowledge about them all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Garcia sat at attention, her breath coming in short puffs. Eyes wide. Heart pounding with anticipation.

The rest of the team had stepped back, taking up positions along the heavily-shadowed walls. Hotch moved into the darkest area he could find, partially shielding himself behind Rossi and Morgan. The scent that had raised his hackles when he'd entered the building was gone, but some deep instinct made him feel wary and restless.

He stole surreptitious, dark glances at his coworkers, wondering if he was the only one on edge.

"We begin." The Madame made the announcement in a commanding tone. Everyone understood that attentive quiet was expected of them. No whispered conversations. No sarcastic jibes or skeptical snorts.

The Sobrani's posture stiffened. She leaned toward her subject, hooded eyes narrowing.

Garcia swallowed; the sound audible in the hushed, increasingly tense atmosphere. More than one of her teammates thought of a sparrow caught in the mesmerizing gaze of a serpent…of an insect being overtaken, suspended in a drop of amber. Just when it seemed someone would have to break the spell…would have to clear a throat or cough or shuffle louder-than-necessary feet…the shop's proprietor emitted a low, rumbling noise from deep in her chest. Like thunder, the sound grew until it resolved itself into muttered words.

"Sssssugar…sssspice… but not always nice…" The woman's intense regard had gone glassy.

_No, not glassy…clouded!_ Garcia shuddered. Whether a trick of the light or something else, there were misty tendrils passing over the black irises trained on her. _Ghosts! It looks like ghosts moving around. Inside her eyes!? How is that possible?!_

Without being aware of what she was doing, Penelope reached one hand behind and to the side. When Morgan stepped out of the shadows and grasped it in his strong, capable grip, the tech analyst took a deep, shaky breath and reminded herself that she wasn't alone. No matter what happened, she was surrounded by big, strong, brave FBI agents.

Still, she kept hold of Derek's hand.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In rumbles and mumbles interspersed with long, long pauses…the words unfolded.

Garcia wasn't sure she understood it all; nor why it felt familiar.

"Alone you have been…long ages past…a cabin…among towering trees you plied your trade. Villagers came to the woman in the woods. For bread and for special occasions…sweet cakes and cookies, pressed with sugared flowers…Weddings and feast days…

"But there were others who came for the arts worked in the dark of the moon…_things_…mixed with the spices…baked for special purpose. Sometimes to heal…but not always…"

The Madame's chin raised a fraction, regarding her client from a new angle. Or maybe through a new wrinkle in time.

"Purple berries, sour bread meant for the man whose fists ruled his family. Bought by his wife with bruises just as purple. But the children…so hungry…found it first…" More foggy tendrils drifted across the Sobrani's depthless eyes. "Tiny bodies laid at your door. Hate. Cries for vengeance when the mistake was theirs…not yours…

"At night they came. Stoked the fires high in your ovens. Fed you to them…. For what was done to the children, the woman who lived alone in the woods, who baked sweets and treats, was called witch….witch…witch…Your flesh baked from your bones…ashes and fragments all that remained…and hate…hate…hate…"

Garcia's eyes filled. A sob welled from her throat. Morgan's hand squeezed tighter. He pulled her from her seat and into his embrace.

"That's _enough_. C'mon, Baby Girl. That's enough."

Through echoes of sorrow from time immemorial, Penelope heard Prentiss's whisper.

"My God…does that remind anyone else of that old Hansel and Gretel story? Is that maybe where it came from? The grain of truth behind the fairytale? They say there's always something…"

Morgan felt iron fingers lace around his wrist. He looked down at the claw gripping him.

Her eyes were clear and sharp. No phantoms dancing through their blackness now.

"You," she rasped. "You are next…"


	3. Morgan

Morgan held the old woman's gaze.

He wanted to challenge her; tell her she walked a fine line…that they'd put up with her nonsense, but not when it turned cruel. Yet Garcia was pushing him toward the chair she'd vacated, her sniffles already abating.

"It's okay, Derek. I'm okay. That was just…it felt so…" She shook her head at her own inability to find the right words, opting instead to communicate with a watery, placating smile. "I'm okay…Go ahead…Don't wanna ruin it for everyone else…"

"Mama, you're not ruining anything. Let's get out of here. This city's supposed to have great seafood. Let's go find some and…"

"No! No…" Shaking her head, Garcia pulled herself together. "No. I wanna stay so everyone has a turn." She gave her nose a brave wipe. "I wanna stay."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Yes, absolutely. Yes."

Consigning Penelope to the sympathetic arms of Prentiss and J.J., Morgan took a seat. Defiance fairly poured from him. He'd been on board with this quixotic outing for Garcia's sake, but seeing his Baby Girl upset by this scam artist and her fictional pack of hunches, made him fume.

_So because Mama is a little fuller figured than some, Madame Whatsis assumes she likes to eat cakes and cookies? Latches onto the first fairytale she can think of that has to do with baking?_ Morgan raised his chin, meeting the black pinpoints studying him from across the table. _Go ahead, you old fraud. Try it on __**me**__. I dare you…_

Another long pause that begged to be relieved by a cough or some other human noise, fell. What did finally break it was the dry, whispery chuckle of their hostess. It grew. From bare beginnings, to laugh, to outright guffaw.

At the best of times, Morgan didn't appreciate being the butt of anyone's joke. He especially disliked being at the humorous mercy of this woman who'd made his Baby Girl cry. He met the eyes trained on him despite their hilarity, glaring with a ferocity learned from his Unit Chief. "What's so funny…_Ma'am_…?" The honorific dripped with contempt.

The woman's voice creaked back at him, her laughter draining away through the cracks. "You. You are, you son of Africa, who are so proud of your masculine power. You, who wake each day to glory in muscle and strength and vigor. You, who swagger and preen and have no idea…"

Morgan remained impassive, but deep inside a tiny alarm chimed like a temple bell. He quelled it, flaring his nostrils and narrowing his eyes, inviting whatever preposterous tale this woman might try to foist on him. She could get to Garcia, but _he_ was no soft-hearted, naïve, vulnerable female drawn to magic and flights of fancy. Let the Sobrani do her worst.

The old woman's features slackened and stilled. No sign of mirth touched them now.

Morgan squinted at her. _Cataracts. She's going blind. That's what that white stuff floating over her irises is. Has to be._ He chose to ignore how the wispy tendrils had appeared out of nowhere. Shivering, he crossed his arms over his broad chest; a stereotypical posture of resistance. But it also helped him warm and comfort himself.

Something that felt increasingly necessary.

The Sobrani's voice took on the sing-song, droning quality it had when delivering its verdict on Garcia.

"Long you have labored…in dust and heat…whips and thirst…during the day…night is different…"

Morgan snorted, muttering under his breath. "Gee, imagine that. Slavery in a black man's past…" But the tiny bell inside him continued to clang its warning, its cell-deep affirmation. He gripped his own arms tighter.

Unhearing or uncaring, the old woman continued. "Blocks of stone rising high, held in place by human misery, blood and sweat…tombs for the royal…tombs for the ages…"

Garcia's gasp filled the pause. "Pyramids? Is she talking about pyramids?"

J.J.'s soft whisper answered. "I could see that. Morgan being chosen for that kind of physical labor…" The Sobrani's next words dispelled the powerful, male image.

"Barefoot, you walk among them…water and bread for the workers…barefoot, bare-breasted you serve the favored few your master picks…"

Prentiss almost succeeded in muffling her bray of laughter. Almost. Now she understood what had tickled the old woman so. "A _camp follower_? Morgan was a slave-girl-_camp_ _follower_?" All three women turned away, hiding irrepressible glee behind hair and hands; evasive tactics to spare their alpha male teammate's dignity. Or what was left of it.

Some of the defiance had drained out of Morgan. There was more of awestruck horror about his expression now.

"With silks you were rewarded…perfumes and sweets…your hair and body oiled…" The woman's voice faltered, her shoulders dropped. An attitude of dejection wrapped around her. "…until your beauty faded…until harsh sun and too many nights of wine and debauchery made you bulbous and sagging…breasts dragging...flesh flaccid…"

Morgan shot to his feet. "Al_right_! That's enough!"

Leveling dark, thunderous looks at the Sobrani, he stalked back to the room's perimeter and the company of his teammates. Only Prentiss was still trying to mask her mirth. Unsuccessfully.

"Oh, chill, Derek… 'flaccid's not a word any guy wants to hear, but...to be fair…you weren't a guy at the t-t-t-time…" Emily's words dissolved; her efforts to choke back giggling useless. When the merriment had passed, she wiped her eyes and stepped forward, leaving a scowling Morgan behind to grumble about the absurdity of these lies Madame was selling.

"Okay, how about me next?"

"No." The old woman's palm rose, facing outward, stopping Prentiss in her tracks. "No." The blazing, dark eyes, once again clear of misty figments, passed over the group. "You!" A long, lacquered nail shot out…pointing straight at…

…J.J….

"You. You are next."

She gave Prentiss a dismissive glance, jutting her chin toward where Hotch was edging toward the door. "You…go stand by _that_." The others looked where she pointed, noting their leader's shrinking presence. Sighing, Rossi pulled Hotch back closer to the group, switching positions to block the younger man's escape.

The Sobrani nodded her approval. "Yes. Stand by _that_. But have a care. Not too close…"

The whine deep in Hotch's throat died there. Unheard.

With quiet grace, and only a little hesitation, J.J. came forward…


	4. JJ

J.J. moved toward the table.

Morgan had shoved the chair aside in his haste to escape the Sobrani's presence. The liaison picked it up, restoring it to its proper place. Carrying the air of calm that helped her excel at her job, she sat and met the dark scrutiny of the shop's proprietress.

Throughout the silence that they now expected to precede each 'reading', J.J.'s eyes were serene. She neither avoided nor challenged.

Watching from the sidelines, Rossi squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, rubbing them. When he looked again, he decided that the pool of radiance that seemed to surround J.J. was only the effect of her blonde hair, picking up what light there was, refracting it. Decided it was so noticeable only in contrast to the old woman's dour darkness.

The silence lasted longer than it had for either Garcia or Morgan. When the words finally came, the team strained to hear what was just slightly above a whisper.

"Long have you traveled…through cycles and seasons…longer still you must go." The old woman's eyes glistened. White liquid pooled in her lower lids. A milky tear overflowed.

J.J. licked lips gone dry. She was used to dealing with extreme emotions, with incalculable loss that shredded people's lives and hearts. She was expert at masking and compartmentalizing. But something about what she was hearing threatened her perfect composure. It was like lifting one's nose to a stray current in the air and knowing in one's bones that it presaged a tornado.

"Child of the meadow…who walks through light…stealing from sun and moon and stars…gathering it close to save for the dark times…the times between…where no human comfort exists…"

J.J. felt her hands, folded so peacefully on top of the table tightening, clenching into fists; the knuckles white with the force of her own bones pressing outward. She bit down on the inexplicable need to sob… _No, to wail! To wail and scream and dig my nails into the dirt because I miss…I miss…I miss…_

Inability to identify or name her own loss brought a tear; an echo of the Sobrani's. Like a small prism it hung from her lashes, scattering rainbows in the light that surrounded her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What the hell…?"

Prentiss had taken up a position beside Hotch, as instructed. She wasn't sure of what she was seeing. _Gotta be some light source trained on J.J. that the old broad can operate from beneath the table. A switch or something_.

She glanced toward her boss, hoping for confirmation, and for a moment forgot about what was happening in the center of the room. The Unit Chief wasn't just watching. He was glowering. Not the formidable glare that was his trademark. Something…different.

Raising her chin, Prentiss caught Rossi's attention. The older agent was standing on Aaron's other side, still prudently occupying a position between Hotch and the exit. Dave blinked, looking away from the light in the middle of the room, and toward his shadowy co-worker. Prentiss nodded toward Hotch, raising her brows in a gesture both questioning and concerned.

Rossi craned his neck around to get a better angle on their boss's face.

Even with the increased visibility provided by the spillover from whatever illuminated J.J., it was hard to read Hotch's nuances of expression. Rossi thought he saw anger, but there was more of fear. Most of all, there was a bewildered kind of grief.

Dave touched shoulders with the younger man. "Hey. Aaron. You okay?" No response. This time the shoulder bump was strong enough to jog Hotch's balance; the whisper harsher. "Hey!"

The Unit Chief startled back from wherever he'd been, realizing something was required of him. "What? S-Sorry…what?"

"Are you okay? Do you need to leave?"

Bringing both hands up, Hotch buried his face in his palms. He inhaled, holding the breath for a beat before releasing it…a trick he used when he needed to calm himself. He let his hands drop. "No. I'm okay. I'm fine."

Rossi and Prentiss exchanged glances again. Emily shrugged. Dave sighed. They knew this man's inner landscape. You had to take your time with Hotch. He wasn't the most forthcoming person when the issue was emotions. Or admitting need of any kind.

Still, whatever was troubling him, he seemed to be holding his own.

Aware they were missing J.J.'s session, Rossi and Prentiss went back to observing the drama playing out in the center of the room.

But despite the Sobrani's order, Emily edged just a few inches away from Hotch, from this man with the lowered head and hunched shoulders; this man on whom the shadows seemed to feed…or who might be spawning them…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The old woman was talking, eyes locked on J.J.; white tears dripping in steady rhythm with the rain. Her aged features drooped with genuine sorrow.

"Yours was the chance…the gift…to stay aloft…but you sacrificed everything to return and return and return…" With a sob, the Sobrani reached across the table, resting gnarled fingers over the liaison's pale, still hands.

"Child of light…you will never find them…and every time you return…you will lose another…Your children are gone…You have condemned yourself to repeat their loss again and again…you will never gather them to you …one will always be missing…you will never cease your search…"

J.J.'s face was as blank, as white as marble. Eyes fixed on some distant point, her prism-tears fell in time with the Sobrani's, in time with the rain.

It was like watching twin births of diamonds and pearls to see the two women cry.

The Madame bowed her head, whispering. "I am so sorry, child of light…mother of grief."

"I know." J.J.'s reply was also a whisper, but it didn't sound like her familiar voice. At least not to her friends listening from the shadows.

Expressionless, she slipped her hand from beneath the old woman's. Rising, she returned with slow steps to her team.

As she did, the room seemed darker than it had a right to be. Darker than when they'd entered.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Concerned eyes and comforting touches pulled J.J. in. After a few moments of silence, Madame Sobrani raised her piercing gaze, letting it fall on her next subject. A small smile danced across the corners of her lips.

"You. It is your turn now." Her smile widened. "Like an antidote. Like hope after sorrow."

Rossi exhaled the breath he hadn't known he was holding in a sharp puff. Giving Hotch a last look, he nodded at Prentiss, tacitly turning over guardianship before taking his place at the table.


	5. Rossi

Rossi didn't believe in psychics, or soothsayers, or fortune tellers, or mystics, or anyone else who claimed to commune with supernatural forces.

Secretly, he was still on the fence about angels and demons, though. But everyday humans claiming paranormal powers? No. No way. No how.

He considered those who knowingly perpetrated such fraud to be diversions for people like Garcia who enjoyed dabbling in romantic fantasy. Mostly, they were a harmless entertainment. But sometimes they were destructive, inflicting damage on vulnerable victims.

And that was something Dave fought. Protecting the unwary and the innocent was fundamental to his nature as well as his career.

He considered the ones who truly believed they possessed some kind of occult talent to be suffering from mental or emotional disabilities. The voices they heard, whispering secret knowledge, were likely from schizophrenia or side effects of medications meant to deal with brains already unbalanced and under siege.

And that was another thing Rossi stood on perpetual guard against; the untreated or inappropriately medicated who could turn deadly if left to their own delusions.

He considered this Madame Sobrani…_It's a Latin-sounding name. God, I hope she's not of Italian descent!_...to be one of the former. A woman building her personal economy around duping the public…or at best amusing them.

He settled back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, legs extended beneath the table, crossed at the ankles. With a broad, cynical smile he brought to mind a country earl deigning to listen to a servant's inconsequential chatter.

It didn't unsettle him at all when the old woman mirrored his posture, returning his smile with one of her own. It _did_ surprise him that hers reached her eyes, crinkling and folding their corners with genuine mirth. There was no silence this time before, still grinning, she addressed her subject.

"You do not believe. Yet you stay close because of a father's heart."

Rossi's eyes narrowed. He sensed a sparring session in the offing. _This could be fun…_ "Well, you're right and you're wrong, Ma'am. I don't believe in psychic super-powers. That's true. And you're not about to change my mind, because you've got the rest of it wrong. I'm not anyone's father."

"You are father to many."

Dave's brows shot skyward in mock alarm. Off in the shadows he heard Morgan's chuckled aside… "Dog! I _knew_ it…." But he began to appreciate this woman's ability to play her audience. He still wasn't sure what had happened with J.J., but it had been powerful, smacking of high tragedy. Now, it was time for comic relief. For the sake of the others, to make this questionable outing more enjoyable for all, Rossi decided to play along.

"Sorry. I have no children…_Lots_ of wives, though!" He was about to elaborate on other things he had a lot of, but the words caught in his throat. Something was wrong with this woman's eyes. They were fogging over. Silvery shapes wandered across the jet-black surfaces. One vague figure seemed to stop and peer out at him. Rossi swallowed, his breath quickening. He clamped down on the impulse to cross himself even as he chuckled at the reaction ingrained by a grandmother whose staunch Catholicism still affected him.

"Not children of your loins…of your heart…Always you gather them… broken spirits… troubled souls…"

Rossi couldn't be sure, but he thought the woman's phantom-ridden eyes shifted for a moment. In Hotch's direction.

"Ancient is your heart…drenched in sun and rich, red wine…fields of sunflowers and vineyards lush with fruit…From time immemorial, it was your land…layered deep in the herbs of cuisine…You fed generations…you fed…your children…"

Dave wanted to say something comic, to bring things back to a lighter vein. But the words that surfaced in his mind were traitorous. Speaking them would validate this phony seer. _Why did I leave? Why didn't I stay where I belonged? Where it felt like home? Why did I make such a sacrifice? What did I trade my children for?_ He chewed his bottom lip to keep quiet.

The Sobrani's head tilted. Rossi had the odd sensation that she was hearing things unspoken. He abandoned his slightly insolent posture, pulling himself up straighter in his chair when she resumed 'reading' him.

"Hunger drove you forth…craving for change, for adventure…" She shook her head in weary acknowledgement of such folly. "Leaving behind your roots…such deep ones…cut off…the tree transplanted turned barren…So you gather your children in another way…soothing your ancient, unhealed heart…" Again the woman's silvery glance drifted toward the corner where Hotch and Prentiss were cloaked in shadow.

"Animals you keep with kindness…and for the children of Man, always an embrace… Displaced soul retains the warmth of the Tuscan soil from which it sprang…long ages ago…"

Rossi's eyes closed. Again, the scent of sun-warmed basil, oregano, thyme drifted over and through him. _No! It's just that I'm tired. It's been a long day and…and…this is just too __**weird**__! But it means…nothing. She's just making me remember how our house smelled whenever Mama was cooking. Just making me think of home. Because she's talking about family and I don't really have one._

It was breathed so softly, it might have been part of the ghostly fragrance…

"But you do. You have _them_…just…like…a family…"

The words floated, then dissipated along with the wild scent of the Italian countryside.

Rossi opened his eyes and gave the woman across the table a long, searching look. He considered ending the session as it had begun…with a flip comment, a cynical jibe. But then the silver sheen drained from her irises, leaving them black once more.

_As black as the center of a sunflower._ He shuddered. Rising, he gave her a grave nod. Whatever she was, fraud or friend, he sensed a power in her that was undeniable. He felt it in his heart, at the core of his being, the place that gave form to all that he was.

"You hear your own soul." Addressing the unspoken again, her dark eyes held weary kindness. Almost…kinship. "Very old. Very, _very_ old…"

Rossi's lips parted…hesitated. He decided against a sharp comeback. Nodding again, he made a slow way back to the shadows, taking his place beside Hotch once more. Unthinking, he draped an arm around Aaron's shoulders, pulling him closer.

But not knowing why.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXxx

"From the old and the wise…to the young and wary…" The Sobrani's smile turned sly as she beckoned to Reid. "Your turn, child of trickery, child of illusion…"

A little wide-eyed, Adam's apple bobbing a few times, Spencer took the seat still warm from Rossi's presence…still scented with sun and soil from ages past.


	6. Reid

Reid's large, amber eyes tracked every gesture, every nuance; catalogued every detail.

If anyone could reveal the fraud behind an act, it was this genius who'd grown up in Las Vegas. Spencer had cut his teeth on some of the finest, most flamboyant floor shows the entertainment industry could dish out. It was one of the reasons he was banned from a number of casinos. In fact, Dr. Reid was a casino manager's worst nightmare. In addition to defrocking 'magic' for his own impish pleasure, he could run odds and statistics faster than a croupier could deal. The edge was his and the house seldom won when Spencer Reid pulled a chair up to the table.

The table he sat at now was different.

It _felt_ different. _Something…something…_

Frowning, Reid wrinkled his nose. And then exploded in a sneeze he barely had time to divert into his elbow, sparing the Sobrani a dewy experience. "Sorry…sorry…" He swiped at the offending feature in the center of his face. "I get like that whenever I'm around the ocean. Something about the salt in the air."

"So...you are of the desert _this_ time..." There'd been no preamble. The Madame's voice was low, bordering on the now familiar droning chant.

Reid gave her a sharp glance, wondering how she could know he was from the arid Southwest…and froze. Frosted eyes stared past and through him. But the young doctor had seen all manner of stage tricks and costume accessories. _Contacts. Has to be. But when did she put them in?_ Within nanoseconds a portion of the phenomenal creation that was his mind was devoting itself to the possibility of shuttered lenses that could be blinked from one color to another.

The majority of his brain remained focused on the performer before him. Although he'd enjoyed the reading at Morgan's expense, Reid had been disturbed by Garcia's and J.J.'s. He wanted to pull the veil from this act so his friends could scoff, dismissing their experiences as inconsequential theatrics. He wasn't sure how he felt about Rossi's reading, but the senior agent could take care of himself.

Reid's natural courtliness and tender heart spurred him into the role of defender for his female friends. He'd cared for his mother for years. Still did, although from afar. So it didn't matter that J.J. and Penelope were older than he was and more worldly. Spencer's gentle nature perceived their vulnerability. And with his own quiet kind of courage, he would always step up to defend them. _Except Prentiss. She's, well…__**different**__ from the others. Maybe 'cause she's in the field and I've seen her in action. Anyway…time to rip the mask off, m'lady…_

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Rossi frowned from the sidelines when Reid explained his sensitivity to the salt bite of ocean air.

He raised his nose and sniffed. Nothing. Not even the heady fragrance of an Italian kitchen garden lingered anymore. There was only the acrid tang of incense that seemed practically a requirement for venues dealing with the occult. But there was nothing of the sea, despite their Seattle location.

Arm still around Hotch's shoulders, Rossi gave him a light squeeze, jogging the man in a bid for his attention. "Hey…Aaron…you smell anything besides that hippie-dippy incense in here?"

He felt the body in his grip quiver. "Aaron? What's the matter with you? And none of that 'I'm fine' stuff, okay? What's your problem?"

Hotch's chest expanded. A deep, deep breath. When he released it, he shook off Rossi's arm. All Dave could make out in the shadows were the twin glints of the Unit Chief's dark eyes. There was something vulpine about the cast of the man's features.

Blinking, Rossi shook his head, clearing it of any fantasies spawned by Madame's atmospheric trappings. _It's the way the light is in here. That's all._ "C'mon, Aaron. What's up?"

Hotch's voice was brittle, as though skating over emotions he was trying to hide or deny. "You wanna know what I smell?"

"Yeah."

"Blood. I smell blood, Dave…Blood. Nothing else. Just…blood..."

Taken aback, the older agent didn't catch the end; a few barely-breathed words…

"_My_ blood…_Mine_…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reid was still trying to fathom the Sobrani's reference to the desert.

_I've published lots of articles and given lectures. Maybe she recognized me? Maybe she's into quantum mechanics or theoretical physics and googled me?_ But even as he considered it, the young doctor knew it was an assumption bordering on the absurd. Still, another section of his finely-tuned brain kept worrying at the possibility as he listened to the woman with the mercury eyes and the sing-song voice.

"New…eager…ricocheting between extremes… seas you have known…sailed…your dying body consigned to the depths..." The Madame's lips quirked in amusement. "…next, you sought desert…trading blue swells for golden sands…"

The ghostly eyes were disconcerting. Reid tried not to look directly into them.

"…Mind undimmed …fresh…questing…hungry…But unable to settle…from sea to shore...from science to magic…from proof to superstition…unable to find your place, your home."

The old woman's smile faded as she repeated. "Unable to find your place…alone…always alone…Child of illusions and tricks, looking for a magic that will bring you the one thing you have never found…a place…love…the peace of belonging…"

Reid's brain had stopped most of its peripheral activity, concentrating on this woman's words instead.

They hurt.

They hurt in a way he never spoke of, and only clutched to himself when he was scared or lonely…or sometimes at night when he wondered what it would be like to feel the beat of another heart against his own. Wondered if he would _ever_ know…

With a savage shake, he pulled himself back from the verge of a self-pitying reverie.

But the longing inside him that was never far from the surface wouldn't surrender. It wouldn't submerge on command. Reid almost hated himself for the question he had to ask. Told himself he was smarter than that; too smart to buy into whatever act this fake gypsy had cobbled together.

But he _had_ to ask.

Because the question was never far from his thoughts. And maybe it was time to bring it out into the light. Maybe if his teammates heard it, they'd understand how deep his heartache went; how all-consuming it sometimes felt. Maybe they'd even know how to help…

"Will I ever…?...you know…_belong_? Anywhere? With anyone?"

The Sobrani swayed in her seat, head engaged in a subtle weaving motion as though she were scanning something expansive laid out before her. Too vast to see in its entirety.

"Child of illusion…the one you trick most is yourself…searching for a home when you should make one instead…Belonging is different from being the same…You will never be the same as…"

The woman's head lolled forward. She said no more.

It wasn't much of an answer. Reid hunched his shoulders, regretting the weakness that had made him expose part of himself when he'd meant to rip the disguise from this sideshow act instead. Resentment began to bubble up inside him.

He raised his head when he heard the soft, admonitory clucking of the woman's tongue.

"Child…fragile fledgling…be at peace with yourself, and a home will form around you…"

Something so deep in him it was almost elemental made Reid want to scream _I don't know how! That's the problem!_

But as he watched, the Sobrani's eyes darkened back to black; the silvery sheen draining away in misty rivulets. Reid stared at her for the span of a few heartbeats. Sighing, he conceded that perhaps the old woman was more masterful at her art than he was at debunking it.

With a grudgingly respectful bow, the young doctor returned to his friends, avoiding eye contact despite the arms that reached to embrace him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Madame Sobrani was growing tired.

She leveled her weary eyes at the two she'd saved for last and wondered about the wisdom of having done so. _But, it's too late to change things now. What's done is done. Besides, they are the most obvious. To me anyway. Although their comrades are unaware of what walks beside them._

Gathering her energy as best she could, she met Prentiss's dark eyes, glowing with anticipation.

"Yes. You have waited long enough. Come…" She gestured at the chair across from her. "Sit…"


	7. Prentiss

With muscles that flowed like a cougar's Prentiss moved out of the shadows to take her place at the table.

She leaned forward in her chair, giving avid attention to this woman she was sure was a fraud, but who was nonetheless entertaining. But then…

…Emily jerked upright.

Her back burned and itched. She pressed her shoulder blades together, trying to alleviate the discomfort. When that didn't help, she writhed in her seat, contorting her arms, reaching around to scratch herself as best she could. Grimacing with the effort.

"It will not help…"

Prentiss's head snapped up at the Sobrani's words, searing itch forgotten. Or at least relegated to secondary importance. She narrowed her eyes at the soothsayer. "What do you mean?"

The old woman gave a long, aspirated sigh as her head fell back, lids lowered, leaving only a thin line of silvery-grey showing between them. It was a posture they hadn't seen so far in the Madame's performance. Something about it was unsettling. Prentiss glanced at her co-workers, but received only shrugs and headshakes in response.

Never one to relinquish control or shrink from confrontation, Emily sat still and straight, chin raised slightly as she studied the old woman. "What did you mean? What won't help? And what needs help to begin with?"

Another long release of breath. The Sobrani's eyes opened just a little wider, but her head remained cast backward…as though she were addressing the ceiling…or the air…or the dreary, Seattle sky above.

"You will not find them again…they are gone…the price…of progress…"

Prentiss had a sly smirk. She would never simply listen; would never be a passive participant. She would engage in conversation. This would be a two-way dialogue; the better to catch the old fake out. "Who are _they_? Explain what..."

The droning chant began, overrunning Emily's voice. "You hunger for your wings…slender, feathered things…with tapered tip and condor span…you would fly while others ran…"

"She's rhyming!" Reid's whisper pierced the otherwise quiet room. "She didn't do that for the rest of us!"

"_SHHHHH!_" Prentiss snapped toward the disturbance. It was more hiss than hush. Despite her determination to view this experience as a quirky adventure mostly for Garcia's amusement, Emily was being pulled in. And not entirely against her will. The burning sensation across her shoulder blades was easing a little more with each word this woman spoke.

"…a hunter's soul in eagle's breast…you faced the task and passed the test…"

Rustling from the sidelines said the onlookers were restless, anxious to discuss this new facet of Prentiss's reading. Another dart from Emily's sharp eye quelled the impulse. The Sobrani's words were growing fainter. The entire room and its occupants seemed to draw closer, the very walls straining to hear the rest of the story.

"…mankind's soul was granted you…but in exchange you lost the blue…of sky and wind and flying free…steep price levied for humanity…"

Prentiss could feel her breathing quicken. She closed her eyes and tested her inner landscape.

Yes. There it was.

The thing that was always with her; that she couldn't explain. It had hit her hard when she'd crossed the threshold of this odd, little shop. Nameless longing. Yearning. So soul-deep it was an ache like a baseline beat that underscored her entire existence. _Was that it? Was it because some part of me remembers…flight?_ She swallowed and with the courage that was her birthright, probed deeper.

And found…

…_It doesn't matter. It __**was**__ worth it. I wouldn't go back. This is where I belong now._

Prentiss didn't believe in the details of this multi-life scenario the Sobrani was painting each of them. What she _did_ appreciate was being forced to take a moment to search herself; to feel the current flowing through her that gave her a place in the world; to sense that she was on the right track with her life; doing what fulfilled her. A pulse of warmth passed over her. _This is what being at peace with yourself is. This is what she was trying to tell Reid. What he needs to find. What we __**all**__ need to find…And I have, I think..._She couldn't suppress a smile._ I'm one flat-out, lucky girl…_

When Emily opened her eyes, they were damp. But there was nothing of regret or sorrow about her. The old woman across the table was still sitting, head thrown back, eyes slitted.

"…pain will lessen as lives flow by…many from now, you'll forget the sky…" The silvery glint showing between wrinkled lids faded. With slow deliberation, the Madame straightened her neck, finally looking at the woman sitting opposite her.

Prentiss was riding the crest of a wave of pure exultation. It made her feel playful and a little mischievous. She crossed her arms, giving the Sobrani a lopsided smile. "So…you're saying I'm not quite human? Part bird or something?"

The woman's gaze was steady…and reprimanding. She waited until some of Emily's insouciance had drained away in the presence of stark, disapproving silence. When she chose to speak, it was clear Prentiss was being reproached.

"You are whole, and yourself." The Madame glanced at the people grouped in the shadows. "You all are. Whether you choose to learn…or to dismiss as a joke…" The Sobrani shrugged. "…that is your affair." She gave a contemptuous sniff. "You are intelligent. I have my doubts, however, about qualities of wisdom, patience, propriety."

Uncrossing her arms, Prentiss inclined her head; a gesture of apology. "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend. It's just…" She huffed out a puff of air, blinking. "…It's just this place is strange. And…" Again she couldn't control a spreading smile. "…and I feel _good_. Not even sure why. Just…_good_."

The Sobrani's answering smile made Emily's grow even wider.

"I am glad."

"Is that it? Are we done?"

The old woman's features rearranged themselves, losing all signs of levity. Eyes closed, she turned her head. When she opened them, Hotch was in her crosshairs, although her words were for Prentiss.

"_You_ are done." Her sigh was deep, long-suffering. "But I am not. Not yet."

Prentiss rose and returned to the sidelines, giving Hotch a curious look as she did so. He remained in the darkness, shrinking back against Rossi.

Maintaining eye contact with the Unit Chief, the Sobrani lowered her head, her gaze became commanding, fierce.

"You. Come." She motioned toward the vacant chair. "Sit."

Hotch stayed where he was.

"_SIT!_" The word slashed through the air with unexpected force, making more than one of the agents flinch.

With steps so reluctant it seemed he was being drawn forward against his will, eyes blazing…Hotch emerged from the shadows…


	8. Hotch

Every move shouting his reluctance, glowering from beneath his brows, Hotch's journey to the center of the room was painful to watch.

When he reached the chair, he hesitated, fairly vibrating with rebellion.

"_SIT!_" The word cut through the air, accompanied by a sharp gesture as the Sobrani thrust her arm toward the place opposite her. "_NOW!_"

"What's wrong with him?" Morgan's whisper was directed toward Rossi, but reached Hotch's ears as well.

"I'm _fine_." He nearly snarled the response, but his whole demeanor screamed fear rather than anger. Still, with the iron discipline they'd come to expect of him, the Unit Chief dropped into the chair and met the old woman's stare with his own.

After a few minutes of this silent showdown, Morgan spoke again, trying to lighten the hostile atmosphere none of them understood. "Wow. That looks like me when I have a staring contest with Clooney."

"Dog's hate that. It's a challenge. In the wild it can presage an all-out attack." Reid's whispered response defeated any attempt to inject humor into the situation.

Rossi was barely listening to the sideline chatter. But one thing caught his attention. _Dog! That's what's been bothering me. Aaron's acting like a cornered canine._ He shook his head. _No. This place and that old lady are just getting to me. In fact, she's been getting to all of us. Of course she'd challenge our alpha leader in some physical way…and the only viable one is a stare-down. This is just another psychological trick, but…damn!...she's good!_

The Madame was leaning as far forward as she could. Hotch's back was pressed up against the chair's. He was clearly uneasy. Without warning, the woman lunged across the table, catching his chin in a firm grip, searching his startled eyes.

As the team watched, aggressive tension flowed out of the Sobrani. Her lips set into a sorrowful line. Moving faster than expected of one presenting such an aged front, she rounded the table to stand at Hotch's side. Releasing his chin, she hugged his head and shoulders to her, stroking his hair in a way that, again, reminded Morgan of his dog Clooney; how he would cuddle his pet each time he came home from a case.

But more surprising was Hotch's reaction. Closing his eyes, he turned his face into the embrace and allowed himself to be handled.

Still caressing the thick, black hair, smoothing the ever-present cowlicks, the Sobrani's chanting drone began…

"Beast you were…man you are…Beast you shall be again…"

Looks were exchanged among the team. But no one interrupted.

The old woman's face crumpled, the corners of her mouth turning downward. Tears filled her eyes as she held Hotch close. Not the opalescent excretions that had marked J.J.'s reading. These were simple, ordinary tears. And somehow more terrible for that honest simplicity.

"…starved and beaten at the end of a chain…puppy born to a life of pain…"

A sob from the shadows was quickly stifled. Garcia's tender heart couldn't remain aloof when things like puppies and pain were mentioned in the same sentence.

"She's rhyming again!" Reid's exclamation was stifled as well, while the team strained to catch every syllable of their leader's reading.

"…noble spirit and loyal heart…forced to fight, torn apart…"

Hotch's shoulders shuddered as he pressed closer to the shelter of the Sobrani's body. A soft whine deep in his throat worked its way out. "Blood…_my_ blood…" The old woman rocked the shivering body for a moment before continuing.

"…blind escape, will so strong…but what you did was very wrong…desperate leap, you jumped ahead…soul of beast became man instead…"

The sound Hotch emitted was the gentlest wail any of them had ever heard. The Madame hugged him even closer, dropping a dry kiss on top of the head pressed against her. "Shhhhhh…Shhhhh…I understand…I see it now…"

Gulping back his pain, Hotch pulled away enough to look up into the crinkled eyes and their fathomless black overlaid with silver strands. He blinked at the disconcerting sight, but something more urgent spurred him on. "What? What do you see? Please, I need to know…"

The team were stunned by the change in the woman they'd been trying to catch out as a fraud all evening. Maternal warmth and comfort wrapped itself around their leader as the Sobrani spoke to him in lulling tones.

"Poor child. So miserable you were, so mistreated. You thought becoming human would save you." She lifted his eyes to hers again with a hand under his chin. "But you were beaten and starved as a man, too. Poor child…" She hugged him close again, whispering the rest into his hair.

"Until you learn the lesson, the pattern will continue. You cannot run from it. You will not always survive it. But there is something to be learned. That is what you must discover, if you would break free. Until then, the abuse will repeat and repeat. It will not matter if you are beast or man. It will continue."

Hotch remained still, soaking in the words as well as the unaccustomed warmth. He would never allow his teammates to treat him as this woman was. _Like a pet. But I like it…_

Along the wall, standing in shadow, there was absolute silence from the team. Except for Garcia. Still, she did her best to keep her sobs from becoming too intrusive.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After a while, the Sobrani disengaged from Hotch.

As she returned to her own chair, she ruffled his hair once more, whispering "Good boy…" Watching, Rossi and Morgan, the dog owners of the group, thought of their respective pets waiting at home. They exchanged sidelong glances. This was the most disturbing session yet.

They almost wished it hadn't happened.

The only saving grace would be if it benefited Hotch in some way, although no one observing could conceive that. Not yet, anyway.

The Madame resumed her seat. Facing Hotch, she folded her hands on top of the table. Her tone was matter of fact, businesslike. No more droning chant. But the undercurrent of compassion was evident to all.

"You have courage and strength and intelligence. But you are so tired of being hurt, of having pain color and dictate your life."

Hotch avoided eye contact. He concentrated on his own hands in his lap. He wished the team hadn't witnessed this. In all fairness, though, he'd had no idea what would happen. All he knew was he'd been terrified at the overpowering scent of his own blood. It was gone now. _And maybe they didn't really hear what she said about how it was growing up. _

He desperately wanted some time alone to review the storm of emotion that had raged through him. He hoped his colleagues had no idea just how fierce the experience had been for him. They didn't need to know he'd been clutching onto the soothsayer as though his life depended on it. But she was talking to him now… _Get it together, Hotchner! Act normal and you still could pull this off without all your damage being laid out in front of the whole world._

"Look at me, child…look at me…" Hotch forced himself to meet the Sobrani's eyes. He shuddered again. Silvery threads were looping through the woman's black irises. It made him queasy, but he held her gaze. He had a feeling something important might come of it. Her voice descended into the whispery drone once more.

"The cycle of pain will one day break…until then, for sanity's sake…let the care and love of friends…enter your heart and make amends…" The silver threads receded.

There was only an old woman sitting across from him. Not some otherworldly, magical creature.

But something deep inside Hotch that hadn't been there before, or hadn't been noticeable, warmed him. _It won't go on forever. If there is anything to this…if she does have some weird, occult ability…it won't go on forever. Knowing that is worth…a lot...worth **everything**..._

Hotch might have given the matter more thought, but Garcia broke. She couldn't stay uninvolved on the sidelines anymore. With a sob and a rush, she descended on her Unit Chief and buried him in a perfumed, glittery hug.

Hotch's eyes met the Sobrani's; saw her lift one brow in challenge. _Have you heard me, child? Take the comfort that is offered. Thrive on it…_

So he let Penelope snuggle him to her heart's content.

He didn't even mind _too_ much when the others joined her.


	9. Payment

The team gathered around their leader.

Touching, patting, hugging him. The women more than the men. But when the time felt right and Hotch stood, pulling away from the affectionate demonstrations, then the men closed in. One-armed hugs, gentle shoves and punches; this was how they communicated masculine support.

Hotch understood. He hoped they wouldn't be offended if he chose to forget this entire adventure. Even as he thought it, he sensed the impossibility of doing so.

At least, they could leave now. He didn't know about the others, but he'd felt compelled to stay. Even when Rossi had asked if he wanted to go; even when the scent of his own destruction was flaying him alive inside, he knew he couldn't walk out.

That feeling was gone; replaced with a lightness of spirit that was liberating. And frightening.

Hotch gave the old woman sitting in her chair a sidelong look. She met his eyes with a level gaze of her own. As a profiler, it unsettled him. It was the look of someone secure in her own truthfulness. _Even if she's a fake, she believes in this stuff…past lives…reincarnation…second chances._ His lips quirked upward in a rare smile. _Third and fourth and fifth chances, if you buy into her act. And maybe that's not such a bad thing to have faith in._

But time for fun and games was over. Hotch still very much wanted to be alone with his thoughts. His hotel room beckoned, although he no longer wanted room service. His appetite had fallen prey, as it usually did, to emotional stress. Sighing, he stepped away from the group and faced the Sobrani, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

"That was…uh… entertaining. What do we owe you?"

"No, no, no, no, no!" Garcia fluttered at the Unit Chief's elbow, pushing his wallet-bearing hands aside. "No! This was _my_ idea! _My_ treat! Now…go! Go, go, go, go, go, _mon capitan_!" Digging into the depths of an oversized tote emblazoned with sequined butterflies, Penelope scrabbled for her own money.

"You must _each_ pay," the Madame intoned.

Garcia stopped her frantic search. Staring at the seer, she pushed rhinestoned glasses further up the bridge of her nose. "But…but…I'm the reason they're here! It's _my_ treat!"

"I do not want money." That caught the others' interest.

An uneasy ripple traveled through them. Some wondered what sinister depths of scam they were about to plumb. Some felt vague stirrings of anxiety; childhood memories of fairy tales involving dreadful prices being exacted for magical services rendered. At least one rolled his eyes; fed up with being manipulated, but unable to dismiss the power of things he'd witnessed this night.

Hotch raised his chin, studying the old woman. "Alright. How can we pay you?"

Her smile banished all fears of subterfuge. "You must remain in each other's company until dawn."

Heads turned. Glances were exchanged. There were a few shrugs. Also a few sighs.

Hotch's shoulders slumped. He'd been telling himself he wanted to be alone to think things over, but now…now he couldn't deny his real motivation. He wanted to prod at the places inside him that hurt. Make them hurt more. Then cry. He needed the release.

But if this was the Sobrani's price, he'd have to honor it. They all would. Really, it wasn't so much to ask when she might have extorted all kinds of money. Harnessing his emotions, the Unit Chief nodded. "You're sure? You wouldn't rather we…what's the term?... 'cross your palm with silver?'"

Madame's smile turned secretive, knowing, as she held Hotch's focus. "No. You must remain together through the night…through the darkest hours."

She trained her eyes on each in turn. "…Just…like…a family…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx

Out in the rain-drenched street, Rossi turned his collar up. "Well, _that_ was weird."

"Yeah. Thanks, Baby Girl."

"Oh, shut up, Morgan. I don't care if she's the biggest fraud this side of the Mississippi. It was kinda fun." Prentiss squinted up at the sky with its burden of blackened clouds. "So where do we go from here?"

"Well, I'm goin' back to my hotel room and take a hot shower. Only way to get warm in this God-forsaken…"

"Derek! You can't! We promised we'd stay together!" Garcia's distress was genuine. She for one, believed in the ill-fated luck of those who broke faith where seers were concerned. Or anyone for that matter.

"Oh, come _on_. You don't really believe…"

"Garcia's right." Hotch's deep, rumbling voice cut down any sprouting debate. "We said we'd stay together. That's the only pay she asked for."

"But…"

This time Rossi interrupted Morgan's objection. "Can it, Derek. Think of it as a lesson. Next time you go into a soothsayer's shop, ask what it'll cost _before_ you accept their services."

"Ain't gonna be no next time, man," Morgan grumbled, hitching his jacket higher onto his shoulders. He hadn't dressed for the chilly Northwest weather.

Only J.J. and Reid kept quiet.

The liaison was on the same track as Hotch. She wanted to be alone to consider what the Sobrani had said during her reading. She was already rerunning it, distracted, unable to pay attention to the discussion flowing around her.

As for Reid, his elegant brain had processed every word and would continue to do so, exploring hidden meanings and occult references. But he didn't want to be alone. The Madame's words had underlined his isolation. And telling someone he should accept himself was easier said than done.

The young genius knew he wouldn't be able to sleep with his mind practically effervescing as it ran full tilt in the aftermath of this experience.

He'd really rather have people around. And these were the only ones who accepted him as he was. Maybe he could learn something from them. Like how they could overlook all the things that set him apart. _Maybe we do need to stick together, so none of us can pretend this didn't happen…that that weird, old woman didn't touch something inside each of us._

Reid finally raised his voice. "Okay, Hotch. This used to be your old stomping grounds. Where do we go?"

Hotch didn't hesitate. He knew the little cafe down by the waterfront where local cops took their breaks throughout the night.

"Seven Dwarves Bistro. It's down in Pike Place. We can walk it." He turned to look down at Garcia's footwear. Not suited for long treks in rainy weather. But it was only a few blocks. To the tech analyst's delight, Hotch offered her his arm.

Her eyes shone behind their thick lenses. The fairy tale aura of her own reading…her boss's touch of chivalry…and the whimsical name of their destination all combined to erase any reservations she'd had about the description of her past life.

Because _this_ life was fabulous.

And she was spending it with her favorite people.


	10. Lesson Learned

Hotch set the pace. Slow and solicitous in consideration of Garcia's flashy footwear.

The rest trailed after him as he made his way down Seattle's darkened side streets toward Pike Place Market.

The hour was late. The foot traffic sparse. As they passed various establishments, they could hear the voices of weary bartenders announcing 'last call.' A few times as the group turned the odd isolated corner, they'd surprise what their law enforcer instincts told them were questionable transactions being conducted in the shadows. The perpetrators scattered before Hotch's glare and the clear warning sign sent up by a dangerous-looking man clad in an official-looking, black suit in this neighborhood at this hour.

A woman standing bored sentinel outside a tattoo parlor tried to coax them in. Her good-natured patter about wearable art made Prentiss smile…and consider taking her up on her offer. But they'd promised to stick together, and Hotch's steps didn't falter. The woman's words about having the cleanest needles in town followed them into a broad alley lined with shuttered shops.

Nearly at the end, a weathered, wooden sign reminiscent of old-fashioned shingles hung outside taverns in medieval times, rocked in the breeze. Small, carved faces of what at first glance appeared to be the Disney dwarves circled the perimeter. Upon closer examination, the creatures' faces weren't nearly as jolly as those in the animated Snow White tale.

A police cruiser was visible at the end of the lane, parked on the cross-street.

Leaning down, Hotch peered through one of the windows. Satisfied, he opened the door and handed Garcia through, holding it for the rest to file in after her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan released a deep sigh of contentment.

The interior of the Seven Dwarves was warm; cozy, even. A fireplace sent up cheerful sparks. The pop and sizzle of pine-scented logs played counterpoint to the quiet conversation of a scattering of patrons. Four uniformed cops were gathered in one corner, nursing mugs of coffee and slices of pie.

Hotch nodded at the two men behind a counter laden with a variety of baked goods under glass domes that glittered as they caught and reflected the firelight. He led the team to a round table situated to one side of the fireplace. Morgan was quick to claim the chair closest to the blaze.

"Why didn't you bring a coat if you're so cold?" Prentiss removed her own, draping it across the back of her chair with an ostentatious air; a visual aid to her criticism.

"Didn't think we'd be sidetracked between PD headquarters and the hotel." Basking, Morgan squirmed a little closer to the warmth. "Why do you like that kind of stuff anyway, Baby Girl? I don't get it."

Garcia had made a complete recovery from her gruesome reading. She removed her flagrantly purple raincoat and took the seat closest to Morgan. "Because, my Chocolate God of Thunder, it's fun."

"But it made you cry." J.J.'s voice was soft, but her observation was undeniable. "Made me cry, too."

"Okay. Maybe not _all_ of it's fun, but it makes you think. Pushes you to…"

"It gives you hope. That's why you like it." All eyes turned toward the person they'd least expected to interrupt…or even contribute. Hotch stared into the flames, unblinking.

One of the men manning the counter approached, putting a temporary halt to the conversation. "You folks hungry or just wanna get out of the weather?"

"I'm hungry." Morgan took one of the menus their host was holding.

Prentiss, Garcia and Rossi also opted for food. The others didn't show interest in anything other than coffee. Once they were assured of some privacy until their orders arrived, Dave picked up the thread of their discussion.

"What do you mean, Aaron? About hope?" Rossi sounded gentle, coaxing. It was a rare opportunity to get the Unit Chief to open up.

Hotch's eyes closed. He shook his head.

"I think I know." Reid fidgeted with the strap of his ever-present satchel. "Maybe…sorta..." He shrugged. It was second nature for the young doctor to downplay himself in social situations. He was never sure what was appropriate…and more sensitive than anyone knew to tiny signs of rejection or condescension when his opinions set him yet farther apart from the average person.

Morgan roused himself from imminent torpor in the warm glow from the fireplace. _His_ second nature was to protect those he believed needed it. A list that included Garcia, Reid and Hotch at the top. "Go ahead, Pretty Boy. Amaze us like you always do."

"Well, it's just things like what we did tonight push people to alter their perspective. The intimation that there's a world beyond what we know that has an affect on us nonetheless…that there are powers and processes moving with purpose. It takes the random cruelty of life and renders it purposeful…even benevolent. And the idea of multiple lives, of the soul's transmigration…"

"It's a second chance." Hotch's deep voice interjected, converting Reid's enthusiasm that was headed for a diatribe complete with sociopolitical and scientific footnotes and references, to the simple basics. "Belief in things like past lives means there could be future lives, too."

Having said his piece, Hotch crossed his arms on top of the table and laid his head down like a schoolboy at naptime. Whether it was the long day, or the way he always drained himself during even a short case, or the emotional weariness resulting from the Sobrani's reading, or if something canine lingering in his depths was responding to a warm corner in front of a fire on a rainy night, he sounded exhausted. His last judgment on the subject was muffled against his sleeve. "Second chance. A chance to get it right next time…or to fail again…and keep on failing…"

Without thinking, Rossi and Prentiss who bracketed the Unit Chief in the seating arrangement, placed companionable hands on his bent back, caressing and patting messages of comfort.

"Oh…Sir…no…" Garcia couldn't bear the mournful note in her boss's voice. "You heard Madame Sobrani. The point is to learn. And you said it yourself: there's hope. Always…always…" Her eyes misted over, words growing softer. "So there's hope that maybe…maybe sometime you can get through life without hurting _any_one…anyone at all…"

"Or losing anyone…" J.J. breathed it out on a sigh.

"Or making the wrong decisions and leaving people and places you shouldn't," Rossi added.

"Or never finding out where you belong." Reid was gazing into the fire, brain traveling paths the others could never know.

Morgan shook his head. "Sure a second chance'd be great. But that doesn't make me wanna go find some crystal ball reader."

"I dunno." Prentiss was still rubbing Hotch's back, trying to ease some of the knotted muscles she could feel all the way through multiple layers of clothing. "It doesn't change how I'm gonna live my life, but something about that old lady made me sort of look inside a little more. Don't usually get time to do that. I enjoyed it, Pen."

Garcia gave her a grateful smile. "She said you had _wings_. How cool is that?!" Her expression slid into sorrow, though, as her gaze fell on their leader's dark head resting on his arms. Images of abused puppies and children threatened tears once more.

The tech analyst gave herself a shake, refusing to end the adventure on a sad note.

Rossi's grave eyes saw her struggle. Saw all of them looking at Hotch. He returned his hand to his best friend's back, and spoke with a firm tone that belied argument.

"She said he had a faithful, loyal heart. We already knew that. And she said he needs to let kindness into his life. Let people love him. That's what I heard anyway."

"Rossi, I think he's asleep." Prentiss felt deep, even breathing beneath the palm of her hand.

"Good. He needs it." Dave lowered his voice as he looked around the table from teammate to teammate. "I think we overwhelmed him earlier. He needs the hugs and kisses, but he's not used to that kind of open display."

"But he needs to learn to let us in more." J.J. gave her boss a fond look.

"We can't push him. He'll close off to protect himself," Reid pointed out.

"So what do we do?"

There was a charged silence as Hotch gave a weighty sigh. When he mumbled something indiscernible, sinking into deeper sleep, the team released breaths they hadn't realized they were holding.

Rossi smiled. "We do what I think that wise, old woman was trying to tell us when we asked how to pay her. We stick together. We stand by him through the darkest times. And we take care of him…we take care of each other…" Dave raised his brows at the group and felt his smile widen when the response that would be their motto for the rest of their time together…in _this_ life, at any rate… was whispered in unison.

"Just…like…a family…"


End file.
